


the view from hell is blue sky

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don't you care?” she had asked. “Don't you even care?” Yes, he had told her, hands behind his back, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. He cared more than she could ever imagine. She asked what was wrong with him and he glared. What the hell did she want him to do? Cry? Is that why she got him here, to see him cry? No, she confessed. She wanted everyone to meet the guy who raised a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the view from hell is blue sky

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have to tell you all how great this movie is (because it is SO GREAT). so we'll skip that whole spiel and get right to the part where I tell you that, after leaving the theater, I knew I wanted to write pages and pages of fic for this film and I was so sure that I also knew which characters I would write for so I sat down behind my laptop and opened a new document (okay, I deleted something embarrassing from an existing document and wrote in that instead)... and froze. I smashed out a few paragraphs that sounded alright but it wasn't working. so I threw some temper tantrums and said I was walking away because I suck. and then tonight, I came up to bed and wrote this. honestly, I'm not surprised I wound up being able to make something focusing on Herc. I should have expected this right from the beginning. this isn't long because I wasn't sure how to keep it going without it getting boring (for you and for me). but hey, the fact that this happened at all is a big deal for me so, right now, I'll take it. all I've read (outside of seeing the film) is the comic so don't beat me up for any canonical errors.

He wakes with a headache pounding, wrapped like a band around his forehead, from clenching his teeth through the night as he sleeps, rigid and tight in the center of his bed. He knows he moves around in the dark—the blanket a prison to his legs, tangled around his waist—but, when he opens his eyes, he's in the exact same position he was in when he closed them. Light (real, natural sunlight) forces it's way through small windows with peeling paint trim, but he sighs up at the ceiling, rubs his head with dry hands, and wonders what the hell he's supposed to do.

It's the same thought he has every single morning he finds himself still alive, still stuck on the hunk of rock that's spinning and rotating around that ball of fire that'll explode and consume them one day (and shit, he's had morbid thoughts before (what kind of guy doesn't) but this is just ridiculous). His wife long gone, his only son (his cocky, egotistical, flesh-and-blood sack of muscle and brawn and brains son) and his best friend, dead in an explosion of TNT and metal, all for the sake of saving humankind. He's grateful for their sacrifice (it's what he tells everyone who asks: “of course it's rough, but I'm grateful for their sacrifice” and it's like some sick mantra) and yet all can think is that they shouldn't fucking be dead.

Does he think he should be instead? No, of course not (maybe sometimes, a few times a week, he'll close his eyes and feel nobody but himself and know that it should have been him). Nobody should be dead. Not a single goddamn person. But that's naïve thinking. That's the thoughts of someone who's not a soldier, someone who got moved inland during the attacks, huddled in their apartments, sipping on expensive scotch and 'tsk'ing and shaking their heads. Such a shame, they'd say, all this violence. That wall, they'd say, their ice clinking in their crystal glasses, it could have saved a lot of lives if built properly. Like they were goddamn architects.

No, it wasn't the ill-conceived wall that rescued everyone in those last few hours. It was those scientists, Geiszler and Gottlieb (risking their brains by plugging themselves into a Kaiju), Chuck and Pentecost (grateful for their sacrifice), Mori and Becket (strength for miles and enough heart to keep a whole continent beating). He had been asked, when it was all over, what he wanted. Nobody ordered him to do anything and they treated him with a surprising amount of compassion. He could do anything: military officials from all corners of the globe wanted to use him for god-knows-what and it would have been a privilege.

In the end, he told them all to go to hell, packed his bags, grasped Max's leash, and disappeared.

They had given him heaps of money after it was all over, like they could press the paper against the gaping emotional wound that had been left behind and somehow patch it up. He used it to buy a house in a small town where he knew they'd have trouble finding him (if they wanted to which he highly doubted), where he knew people recognized him but wouldn't treat him like an idol, because they were too busy repairing the damage.

He'd offered to help, even with his arm still in a sling, and they had been wary but eventually caved. No one asked questions, but he figured it's because they already knew everything they needed to know. The news of his son's death was widely reported, people who barely even met him talking into a microphone about what a great, noble guy he had been and, golly-gee, what a shame he died but at least it was for a good cause. Only one news station had managed to coerce him into an interview. The woman lobbing heavily-worded queries at him had initially interpreted his silence and one or two word responses as grief but grew steadily annoyed when she realized it was because he didn't have anything to say.

She had approached him after it was over, her red mouth drawn into a thin line, her shoulders trembling. “Don't you care?” she had asked. “Don't you even care?” Yes, he had told her, hands behind his back, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. He cared more than she could ever imagine. She asked what was wrong with him and he glared. What the hell did she want him to do? Cry? Is that why she got him here, to see him cry? No, she confessed. She wanted everyone to meet, to mourn with, the guy who raised a hero.

He never went on another interview again.

So here he was in bed, memorizing the cracks above him, the bend of the plaster, like any minute now it'd collapse on him and kill him in his sleep and he'd be happy if it would but, he groans, then who the fuck would take care of Max. He'd have to look into that (just in case). His head was drumming, men with little hammers banging away inside his skull, and he covers his eyes with his fingers and exhales slowly.

“I'm grateful for their sacrifice,” he says to himself.

One of these days, he might actually start to believe it.


End file.
